


Vermillion Eyes

by Chaosia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Au-ish then, BAMF! Stiles, Is it considered AU if it's still in Beacon Hills, M/M, Stiles and Derek are all alone in the Not-really Beacon Hills, but not really Beacon Hills?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:29:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosia/pseuds/Chaosia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweet hell<br/>I'm a little lonely in this tore up town,<br/>Sweet hell<br/>Won't you come and find me in this big ole house,<br/>Lock the door,<br/>So we can bury these bones on the floor,<br/>Oh, sweet hell<br/>I'm a little lonely, baby, where are you?<br/> -Gin Wigmore.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Red eyes glared down the abandoned street. It looked so </em> real…<em>the city. Everything was where it was supposed to be. All the restaurants, shops, friends' houses and even his own were identical to the real deal. It took him a long time to figure out that this place he was trapped in wasn't his home. Garnered against actual memories, it could very well be. But it's not. It never will be because this-wherever this is- is missing a pivotal point;</em> people. <em>Life. Things that make Beacon Hills Beacon Hills.<em> Without people, it was like he was existing in a ghost town. </em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Vermillion Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own Teen Wolf or the characters.  
> A/N: Sorry for all the mistakes you find :)  
> Also if anyone wants to be my beta and beta this, I'll be more than grateful!

Red eyes glared down the abandoned street. It looked so _real_ …the city. Everything was where it was supposed to be. All the restaurants, shops, friends' houses and even his own were identical to the real deal. It took him a long time to figure out that this _place_ he was trapped in wasn't his home. Garnered against actual memories, it could very well be. But it's not. It never will be because this-wherever this is- is missing a pivotal point; _people_. Life. Things that make Beacon Hills _Beacon Hills_. Without people, it was like he was existing in a ghost town.

Stiles trudged down the street, hitching the black duffel bag more securely onto his shoulder. It was silent. Dead silent like all other damn days here. He's gotten used to it, having lost track of counting the months he and his… _companion_ I guess you could say, have been stuck in the fabricated city. Not much use talking to himself now was there? It was just stupid, embarrassing (who was going to judge him?) and plain depressing. Talking reminded him of people, of friends. Whenever he talked he was always expecting an answer to reply to his rambles but none ever came. None ever will.

He marched up to Allison's house and entered it easily. None of the houses or stores were locked. It made him feel like he was a criminal for breaking and entering into so many houses. He felt guilty even though technically he was not intruding into other people's homes, and the doors _were_ open to him. When he had ventured out to search for his friends (mainly Scott and Allison even though Allison wasn't his friend friend, just a friend through Scott friend) at their own abodes, he found it strange that everything was perfectly accurate. Down to the last detail. Now he didn't know what Allison's room looked like in reality, but he'd spent enough time at Scott's to know that someone took great care in details. They even got his room impeccably.

Without thinking much, Stiles went to the Argent's personal assault arsenal, dumping the duffel onto a small counter that was stationed below the displayed weapons. Zipping the bag open, he proceeded to take out 3 semi-automatics, a shotgun, and a revolver and laid them carefully next to the bag. Next he pulled out 4 boxes of ammo and placed those back into the small cubby under the counter. He then returned the guns to their rightful place on the caged cabinet. With nothing to do, Stiles had busied himself in familiarizing himself with the different kind of arms as well as making the Argent's specialized aconite bullets. Of course now, they were of no use to him. They were never any use to him except for prying them open to get the powder inside to make the antidote for Scott and Derek. Really the only reason he bothered to learn was only to learn. To occupy his indefinite time here.

He still can't fight, but at least he knows how to handle weapons in case he can get his hands on any. His aim is improving too, especially with the bow and arrows. Stiles kept on getting burned along his arm from the release, but soon figured out turning his elbow slightly inwards fixed that problem. That also steadied his shot a lot more and was now proud to say he could hit his targets dead on. His marksmanship with the guns was awesome as well, but he prefers dawdling with the bows and the occasional knife. A few days prior, he started to get the hang of throwing knives, hitting the bull's-eye every other 3 throws.

The teen collected the beautifully crafted bow and the quiver of silver tipped arrows along with a soft black rolled up carrying case. He slung the quiver over his right shoulder, the bow following after. Closing the chain doors of the cabinet and the glass slider doors to the multiple cubbies under the counter, Stiles went into the spacious kitchen. He rummaged around in the fridge a little, deciding on stealing a water bottle. He didn't need water or food for that matter. He never got hungry or thirsty or felt the need to relieve himself in the toilet. It was baffling how he didn't have to meet certain needs to sustain himself, and he couldn't figure out how that was possible, but old habits die hard. He still ate what he craved and still took sips of water every now and then just to keep the feel of normalcy and the fear of forgetting the basics of being human at bay. It was already decided that when he got of there, when _they_ got out of there, he was going to eat so much he'll puke. Curly fries from that small diner he goes sometimes with his dad, would be his first victim.

Grasping the cold bottle in one hand and the soft case in the other (the duffel bag left with the guns in the cabinet), he left the Argent's house. He glanced down at the watch he had taken from the jewelry section at the mall (they had Batman); it was close to 6 now. He was directly on schedule. Stiles walked through the streets, ignoring how dead and noiseless things were, and sung a random song to keep his mind off of the macabre subject. His destination turned out to be a hole in the wall firework shop. The bell strung to the door dinged as the teen went in, heading straight for the glass counter on which a box of fireworks sat on. They were those large ones that were saved for the finally. Grabbing one, he left the crappy store and with purposeful strides, made it to the center of Beacon Hills the Replica within 30 minutes.

In the middle of the intersection, corpses of already fired tubes laid about, making it look like a firework graveyard. Setting the bow, the quiver, the carry case and bottle of water down at one of the four curbs, Stiles sat the firecracker in the middle of all the other empty shells. Now he waits. Sitting by his things, he took a small sip of water and leaned back against the street light pole and watched the fake sun sink below the horizon. He hated that sun. It was so bright and shiny and yellow and it hurt his eyes to glance directly into it, the whole shebang of being a sun but it wasn't. It never warmed him up or made him hot and sweaty, it was just there, lighting the fictional city with its lies. Stiles realized he missed the feeling of _warmth_ , of feeling hot or cold or any temperature. Here it was always just… _okay._

It wouldn't be long now until a round and full moon and millions of stars came up. The moon was always full, as if the day and night were stuck on repeat like a song that couldn't get out of your head.

Stiles sighed. It was almost time.

His fingers pitched forward, searching inside of the nearby shells. On the third shell, he found what he was looking for, the lighter. Gently he caressed the embossed metal. This belonged to his father. He found it lying on the nightstand within his father's room when he was looking around for anything that could remind him he had to survive this and get back home. Back to his family and friends.

His family and friends. He wondered what they were doing right now. Where they freaking out and worrying when they couldn't find Stiles anywhere? Did his dad send out an Amber alert and post missing pictures of him on every and any single available space? Oh God his dad. The Sheriff must be in the dumps and depressed and plain losing it. He hoped Scott was there; checking up on his father and keeping him company and was telling him that everything was okay and that they'd find him sooner or later, hopefully sooner.

Stiles was brought out of his melancholy thoughts by a loud and long and sorrowful howl. That was his signal. Getting up, he lit the firecracker and stepped back a bit to watch it discharge into the sky, lighting it up a pretty green.

Every Wednesday, at around this same time, Derek Hale would let loose a howl. In return, Stiles would pop a firework. This routine was decided upon a week after they entered this warped place. This allowed them to let the other know that they were okay. That they were still alive and breathing. It worked marvelously for Derek got to stay by his reclusive self at his burnt out house in the woods, and Stiles got to stay by his house and things he was familiar and comfortable with. That and Derek had made it clear that while they were there, they should stay out of each other's way. Stiles disagreed at first, claiming that it was a horrible idea and what should happen if something went wrong? So the alpha devised this arrangement. Should Stiles or Derek find out anything about what was happening to them, or something bad happens and they need help, or anything of importance really, they would call the other using this method.

Of course cell phones would work just as well, but it seemed as if they were useless here. Always, when Stiles tried to call Derek (this was when they were trying to figure out how to stay in contact with the other), nothing happened. No ringing, no nothing. There was a dial tone strangely, but no calls or text messages could be sent or received. That didn't stop the teen from continuously keeping his cell phone on him or from keeping it fully charged.

Every single Wednesday. A howl and a firework.

Sighing, the teen stooped to pick up his things. It was about time he headed back to his abandoned house. The first few weeks he walked home, he would almost have a panic attack from the empty, all alone feeling he'd get in the dark laden streets. Knowing that there were creatures out in the world that could kill him with one swipe of a hand, or claws, was enough to drive his mind wild with children's stories of fright. He knew his fear was illogical, seeing as he was _technically_ all alone, Derek on the other side of the small city hidden away in the woods. But his fear quelled and it faded away into passing thought as the days dragged on by.

Stiles could see his house now, only a few houses down towards the middle of the street. It was a nice cream colored two story house with a regular sized lawn and small backyard. He always wondered how Derek and Scott could sneak through his window at night. Their appearances were always expected, even if he was sometimes caught off guard by them.

He slipped through the unlocked door, shutting it softly behind him. He could see it now. His dad sitting in the kitchen, looking over cases and sipping on a glass of whiskey, or if he was feeling even better, a cup of hot coffee. The Sheriff would glance up, smile lightly at his son, and ask him where he was and how was his day. And Stiles would tell him the cliff noted version, extracting the werewolf situation out. Yes, he couldn't wait to be back home.

Dumping the bow and arrows and the soft carry case onto the sofa, Stiles debated on what to do next. Usually he would go up to his room and take a nice long shower to relax his overworked muscles and then stretch some before hitting the hay. Now though, he was thinking of taking the case of knives up with him so he could clean them a bit, skip the shower and dive straight into bed. Nodding his head, he scooped up the rolled case and opened it. In tiny pockets, a variety of lengthened knifes rested. Some were as small as his thumb, others as big as a dagger and the rest in between. He ran his thumb over a palm sized throwing knife. It was his favorite one out of them all. The blade was carved out of pure silver and it had a slight Kris wave to it. The hilt wasn't really a hilt as the silver forked into two separate pieces, and curved into a round oval, crossed with its twin, then continue to make another oval before crossing once more to curl into small separate spirals. The handle made the infinity symbol. For the way it was crafted, the knife was the most balanced out of the rest.

Stiles' thumb froze over the hilt's first intertwine, the middle of the symbol. Snapping out of his shock, the teen whipped his head to the stairs. He could have sworn he heard footsteps upstairs. But that was impossible wasn't it? He was here all alone, just him and Derek and he knew for a fact that Derek was back at his own house, trying to figure out what they were doing here and where exactly here was. He would have howled to let Stiles know he was on his way or _something_. Though this was Derek he was talking about, he thought. Derek wasn't the most kindest person to let someone know he was intruding upon them. He just sort of did. Intrude. And it was somehow fine with the person because they really couldn't win against his glare. Stiles tried, a thousand times, and never has he won.

Pulling out the Kris dagger, and three thumb sized knives, the teen called out into the darkness.

"Derek?" He slipped the small knives into his front pocket, putting them in such a position that they wouldn't cut him when he moved. "Is that you wolf boy?"

Nothing.

He gripped the knife in the way he had practiced a few hundred times with, a hold that allowed him to strike comfortably, quickly, and dangerously. As silently as he could, he ascended the stairs. Halfway up, a light clicked on in one of the rooms. He stopped. It was his father's room. Once again he started going up, hands trembling slightly. He could feel his heart pump blood faster. Stiles gripped the knife tightly, stopping the shakes, at least in that hand.

He called out again. "Hello?" _Evil is that you?_ He thought, for whatever was up there has got to be evil, in his experience.

Stile took two deep breathes and steeled himself for anything. He was already a foot from the cracked door of his father's room. Reaching out a hand, opened the door slowly, afraid of what he was going to find. Pushing it all the way open, he stepped inside, dagger poised in the air ready for attack. His crimson colored eyes scanned the room and he had to swallow thickly. Why did it have to go into his father's room of all places?

The bathroom door opened then and Stiles couldn't fight back the gasp at what he saw.

_"Dad?"_

**Author's Note:**

> So I know this is a boring start but I'm hoping this will become interesting next chapter. I'm trying this story on for size, probably a side project of mine. Let me know what you think. Should I continue this?


End file.
